


two-handed broadsword

by halfthewords (Sierra)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M, Masturbation, No Spoilers, Other, angry erections, conveniently left-handed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 10:41:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9487598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sierra/pseuds/halfthewords
Summary: Training sessions have become dangerous enough without that knowledge in the hands of someone like Prompto, who already eyes Gladio at times with more than just a bit of interest.It’sintent.





	

**Author's Note:**

> solo!gladio adventure would not stop tapping me on the shoulder

It might be the long days of travel. Blisteringly hot, exhausting, one step after another.

The surly glances Noctis throws his way when he thinks Gladio isn’t looking are a likely cause, too. The quiet resistance in those eyes is like a bolt to the back of Gladio’s head, as bothersome as a bee sting and just as harmless. Or maybe it’s their surroundings getting under his skin. He’s always enjoyed being outdoors. And in company it’s harder to take a moment aside for himself to just appreciate where they are, what the sky looks like. He’s found frustration that builds in him over a period of time has the same effect as a pair of tits, and the few lengthy sparring sessions he’s had with Noctis have led him to similar conclusions. Nothing pisses him off like a stalemate.

Annoyance after annoyance equates to a fucked up sum: somewhere along the way, his libido got all twisted up with his temper, and when it flares, so does the need to get laid.

Either way, Gladio hasn’t had a hard-on this persistent in months. The stirring starts close to sunset, and as he puts up the tents himself, it’s a presence demanding to be felt. He grunts away the help of first Ignis, then Prompto who requires more convincing by way of a tent peg thrown at his head.

He has too far to travel with them yet to risk anyone guessing what he gets off on. Training sessions have become dangerous enough without that knowledge in the hands of someone like Prompto, who already eyes Gladio at times with more than just a bit of interest.

It’s _intent_.

True to form, Noctis is out like a light as soon as he finds a shirt to configure into a makeshift pillow. Gladio sits by the tent long after dark falls. To anyone else, he must look the role of bodyguard.

Crossed legs spare his modesty. Prompto only looks at him once inquisitively before crawling into the other tent a few minutes after Ignis decides sleep is better than staring at the fire and the remains of whatever the fuck animal Noctis dragged back from hunting.

His head pops out again a moment later. “Still hungry?”

“Nope,” Gladio responds, folding his arms.

A look of deliberation sets on Prompto’s face. “G’night, then.”

He disappears with a rustle of the tent flap, and the rush of air out of Gladio’s lungs is long and noisy.

His cock has other ideas. He knows sleep isn’t on the cards until it’s dealt with, and thoroughly. The path of least resistance is to obey. He exhales heavily as he hefts himself up, and wanders far enough from camp that nobody but the trees and stars will hear him groan whoever’s name his fantasy takes the shape of tonight. Man, woman; it never matters. Just that there’s a pulse and warmth and preferably selective muteness. Noctis’ voice alone has driven his orgasm off before.

Curiosity might usually kill the cat, but he’d put good money on that expression of Prompto’s staying with him.

Beyond a clearing, he finds a dilapidated shack with a hole torn through the middle of the roof.

He pauses just long enough to consider what might have done it and whether that deserves any real thought beyond _who the fuck cares_. Lazy inspection of the shack finds a couple of loose wooden slats, which he heads for when the door proves to be jammed shut. It’s a squeeze and a half for the breadth of him. He hisses out a curse as he’s forced to turn sideways to ease himself in, the pressure on his clothed hardness almost enough to send him headfirst into orgasm.

“The hell is with all the abandoned shacks around here?” he mumbles to himself, surveying the improvised skylight.

It lets in enough light for him to see what he's doing. If he cared about more than getting off right now, he might be moved by the night sky above; cloudless and star-filled in a way it hasn’t been since they set out for Altissia. He’s admirer of nature but he draws the line at jacking off under a tree, and he doesn’t know when he’s going to get a chance to work this tension off again. It could be weeks. The idea of bearing Noctis’ attitude a minute longer without some relief in the interim is enough to make him nauseous.

He moves by feel when he tugs down his fly to free his cock from the confines of leather. Relief runs through him in alternate hot and cold zips in his blood as the back of his shoulders find the wall. He sinks down to sit, knees pulled up to halfway, left hand sliding into his pants.

He’s too far gone to care about the kiss of leather when it startles him into glancing down. Vambrace on, then. The cold skin of his palm exposed by it is a contrast to the rigid heat of his cock. On the first experimental swipe of his thumb over the tip, his head drops back against the wall too. Instead of throwing a metaphorical bucket of ice-water on his boner like it normally might, his mind conjures an image of Prompto, and Gladio closes his eyes with a satisfied little grin. A low groan rumbles from deep in his chest, fingers sweeping beads of precome down the length of the shaft.

He knows it doesn’t get much better than imagining how Prompto’s curiosity might manifest itself when presented with a real weapon, one Gladio is capable of doing damage with. As it is he can barely get his own hand around his cock; his free one dips further down between his thighs to smooth over his balls, which tighten under the touch. One slow stroke opens the line to another, and then another until the only sound is that of his fist on his cock and the slam of his head against the wall.

His breathing goes from steady to shallow and ragged in seconds flat. Even if Prompto’s lingering stares weren’t ground into the makeup of every cell in him, his body knows what it needs. He’s perfected the art of coming in a hurry when he has to, and today is no exception, hastened along by the thought of what inquiring hands might do, how intensely blue eyes might be trained on him as those lips swallow his release down--

And he breaks from the precipice with a husky cry of no one’s name in particular, but Prompto’s face so vividly on his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/sierrasuke) where i thirst over gladio 25/7


End file.
